THE sky grew darker with each minute Outside my room, I felt within it The clouds, disconsolate and gray. The ash-tree yonder moved its crown With heavy creaking up and down, The dead leaves whirled across the way. Then ticked, through the close room, unhurried, As in still vaults where men are buried The woodworm gnaws, and ticks my watch. And through the open door close by, Wailed the piano, thin and shy, Beneath her touch. Slate-like upon us weighed the heaven, Her playing grew more sorrow-riven, I saw her form. Sharp gusts upon the ash-tree beat, The air, aflame with dust and heat, Sighed for the storm. Pale through the walls the sounds came sobbing, Her blind, tear-wasted hands passed throbbing Across the keys. Crouching she sang that song of May That once had sung my heart away, She panted lest the song should cease. In the dull clouds no shadow shivered, The aching music moaned and quivered Like dull knives in me, stroke on stroke— And in that song of love was blent Two children's voices' loud lament— Then first the lightning broke. |